“Why is there always one bloke in these boy bands who looks like he came to fix the boiler and somehow got bullied into joining the group?”

“He came off so lost, which of course hit all my buttons because who doesn’t dream of finding an incredibly hot boy and fixing him? Straight guys may have cars and gadgets, but girls and gay boys, we like to fix broken boys.”

“Of a band with three actual boys, why is it that all the maids lust after the fake one?”

“And you've got a boy right there who looks at you like he would drink your bathwater if you'd ask him!”

“I even tried to join the army, but they wouldn’t have me. The bloke in the uniform took one look at my ugly mug and said, ‘Sorry, we want subjects, not objects'.”

“I’ll always be broken,” I went on. “Because when I came here, no one fixed me. It’s not that they didn’t care to fix me. These crazy, wonderful people I met at Craneville didn’t fix me because they didn’t think I needed to be fixed. And it wasn’t because they were ‘crazy’…it was because they were the only people who knew that I could only face the world out there again as someone different. As someone who wasn’t perfect, who wasn’t normal, who didn’t have all the answers…someone who was somehow ‘fixed’ by being broken.”